This is my son, Holden, when he was one week old. Born into the world prematurely, along with his twin brother, he spent his first six weeks of life resembling, as I can only describe now as, Benjamin Button. As his mother, I still found him beautiful, even if in my core I worried about his long-term outlook. Now, almost one year later, Holden is a happy, chubby, active little baby. He has grown like a weed in a Texas summer. So why do I feel haunted by visions of those early days?
As a mother, we worry, sometimes irrationally, about our children. We follow their development month by month, devouring a plethora of articles and blogs to ensure our babies are on the right track. Most of the time, our friends and loved ones are there to tell us when there is basis for our fears and when we’re being overly senseless. Pediatricians reassure us that children develop at different rates. The law of averages works in our favor and most of us are burning too many unnecessary calories with the incessant worrying.
But when I try to comfort myself with these facts, this particular image of my son perpetually appears in my mind. When my son would cry at loud noises, I prepared myself for a sensory processing disorder. When he didn’t babble well past the expected timeline, I was sure it was Autism. His constant cough, which lingered the entire first year, I knew was asthma. When I look into his big dark eyes and see
Do I have material cause for these constant apprehensions? Possibly. It will be years before proper testing can diagnose if his early start (and ensuing medical complications) left any long-term damage. But in the meantime, what am I doing to myself?
I shy away from pictures of those early days, maybe because I feel responsible for the pre-term labor (my body couldn’t carry the load of twins), maybe because I know he suffered in those first few weeks from all the blood draws and tubes, but primarily I believe it’s because his picture simply scares me. It’s a terrifying reminder that bad things may happen to my children that I cannot control. There are times when I will have to
But while I brace myself for a storm that may never come, I inadvertently lose sight of the beauty that is before me today. The intensity of his gaze, his quiet pensive nature, and willful fortitude to battle his own natural weaknesses; these uncommon traits in such a small soul, should not be my principal cause for alarm – they should be the epicenter of my pride.
Our time with our children vanishes faster than a long-anticipated sunset and I must refuse to waste these indispensable seconds worrying about outcomes that cannot be changed. We must, as parents, turn away from the innumerable articles that compare child to child and inspire fear. For no matter what comes, the love remains, the strength remains, and we will meet the unknown together as a family.